


Routine

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Full Moon, Waffle House, Werewolf Culture, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:03:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12938784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: The morning after the full moon, there's one place where pretty much everybody goes.





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Turq_I](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turq_I/gifts).



> _"its [waffle house] that kinda place that you go to the morning after the full moon and you see, like, all these people who are dirty with ripped clothes and no shoes. and you can, like, pick out all the werewolves"  
>  [literal silence in response]  
> "i mean, if they existed of course"_
> 
> so that was my day and apparently, i'm now being accused of being a werewolf, and when i told turqii of this, she said:
> 
> _"Oh my god that would make a good story though  
>  Being a werewolf and walking into a Wafflehouse and all of the were-customers see you and nod in understanding. The staff are in on the routine"_

                A chime rings out above her when she jostles the door open far enough to step inside, the sound familiar and welcoming. She’s just as fond of it as she is the smell that greets her – waffles and bacon, syrup and coffee, a hint of mildew in the corner and forest dirt that surrounds quite a few of the customers here. She takes in a deep breath and ruffles a hand through her scruffy, short hair, and drops a leaf she pulls from it into the trash can next her.

 

                As she makes her way to ‘her’ barstool, she nods at the people who looked up at her entrance. They, too, are each a little disheveled, some with smears of dirt over their faces, others with twigs and leaves in their hair or clothes. One is missing a single shoe, and another has a toddler on her lap that keeps trying to wiggle out of his pants, only stopping when he is distracted by his adult-size plate of chocolate chip pancakes and sausage. More than half of these people have the same order, today’s special. Full of meets and carbs, a couple of drinks, and a much fuller plate than any other order. Her mouth waters just thinking about her own.

 

                Sliding into her seat, third from the wall, nice vantage point of the whole place and door without having to take up a booth, she accidentally touches something sticky. It’s nothing unusual, or even unexpected here (it’s Waffle House, not some actual fancy restaurant or anything), and it’s out of her mind the second she wipes her hand on her pants, already instead focusing on her favorite waitress. She leans back against the countertop, elbows coming up to stabilize herself, barely missing the sticky patch, and she bites her lip.

 

                Today she’s got her hair, pretty and silky, and soft to the touch, all pulled up in a bun, still clean and not really falling out because it’s pretty early morning still. In her ears she has in a new set of butterfly earrings, each piercing a different color; blue, purple, red, yellow. In this moment, as she twists just a little to top of a man’s coffee, the sunlight falls around her like she’s the sun herself, and her features glow a little brighter, soften just a little more. She is beautiful. More than that – she is divine.

 

                Running a hand through her hair again, she lets her gaze dip on her waitress, lets it fall to her neck and collarbone. At the sight of the skin visible, there is movement in her gut, like the both cold and warm came to life and danced together in her chest and stomach, and she sags a little in her chair. The feeling makes her want to curl up tight, or even better, pull her waitress in real close, drape herself over her. Now’s not the time, but there is always later.

 

                (She takes a glance just a touch further down, where a darkened mark peeks out from under her shirt. Pride swells inside her and she licks her teeth, allowing herself a second to imagine making it larger, darker, letting it poke out just a little more. Later.)

 

                Her waitress looks up then, pretty, pretty eyes catching on her own oh so easily, and she spreads her legs, lifts the corners of her lips. She gets a smile in return as the woman makes her way over, and the scent she carries with her only gets stronger with every step. She smells like what she’s touched, breakfast foods and drinks, eggs and batter and bacon, with hints of her strawberry chapstick, and citrus deodorant and body wash. Things that she has only grown to love the smell of every day.

 

                She looks up as her waitress leans over her to fill up her cup, closer than she needs to be, but farther away than where she’s wanted, and ignores the itch in her teeth that tell her to lean forward into that empty neck and scatter it with more and more marks. The urges are still so strong, even after the moon’s pull has waned, but even she knows she can’t blame too much of them on that.

 

                “How was your run?” She’s asked, and her mind is filled with images of last night. Bursts of images of the trees, quick and fleeting, the sounds everywhere and loud. Hearing the rabbit she caught from halfway across the forest and being after it just after it took a step. The pull tugging and tugging at her, feeling the shift come on like a chain broken, freeing. Singing for the pale sky and hearing the harmonies of others, close enough to listen to, but not so close they’d run into each other. Singing for her love, who sits here, now, with a gentleness to her like she heard her song and knew that it was just for her, and the same heaviness (a good, filling heaviness) pressing into her heart as it does now.

 

                She shrugs, but can’t stop her grinning, and gives in to the need that tugs at her to press her face into her waitress’ skin, inhaling deeply, and letting every breath out of her mouth puff hot and wetly against her skin. She can both feel and hear the laugh that comes out of her waitress at her actions, but that only causes her to loop an arm around her waist and tug her in. “Mm, good,” she hums and with every lungful of breakfast and strawberry lemonade, her eyelids feel a little heavier, her everything a little more content. “Better now.”

 

                It is. Her waitress makes everything better.

 

                There’s another shuffle of movement to show for a laugh at that, and she can hear the coffee pot being set down before there’s a hand in her hair, fingernails rubbing against her scalp. “It’s been finished already, you goof,” she hears and she wants to argue that her run isn’t ever finished until she’s had a moment like this with her waitress, but instead burrows in a little farther. Words and food, everything else but this, well, that’s something for later.


End file.
